


you don't really want to stay (but you don't really want to go)

by haroldslouis



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Football, Angst, Communication Failure, Getting Back Together, M/M, Post-Break Up, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5887342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haroldslouis/pseuds/haroldslouis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And after that, after the failed attempts to sort it out together, after the screaming, after the <em>guess you’ll just have to fucking go then, just go! </em>it had just… ended. Not with a fizzle, but with a bang, because that’s him and Jonny together. Explosive, even when they’re not on the same side.</p><p>or, the Football/Soccer AU where Patrick and Jonny broke up when Jonny transferred to the rival club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you don't really want to stay (but you don't really want to go)

**Author's Note:**

> First work in the Hockey RPF and I'm not comfortable enough to write about hockey yet, so football it is! O, glorified be ye, Alternate Universe. Features: loads of miscommunication, angst, and tooth rotting fluff.

He didn’t know what he was doing here, standing on the steps of Jonny’s house in London. The rain was falling from the dark sky, and Patrick could hear the faint gongs of the Big Ben. It was late. Even a city like London was deserted at this time of night. He wiped the back of his hand against his forehead, wondering what had gotten into him.

He hadn’t spoken to Jonny in more than two years. The last time was the match in which he planted his elbow in Jonny’s face, making it very clear to him to never talk to him again. He’d taken the red card in stride, the victory already obtained, anyway. Jonny’s insults had followed him all the way down into the tunnels underneath the stadium.

Since then they didn’t seek each other out on the pitch anymore, and they managed to stay silent every two or three times they played each other during the season.

But now, here he was. The second he read the news on the official Arsenal Twitter account, he got in his car and drove. It had taken him nearly half an hour to find the email Jonny had sent him, in which his new address was written. But he had found it, and now he was fidgeting with his fingers on Jonny’s doorstep. It was a fancy house, tall with white bricks and a large door. It looked like it belonged to royalty, instead of an attacking midfielder with an otherworldly  salary. Patrick never really got the details of Jonny’s deal with Arsenal, but he’d watched the news. Sky News had been convinced Jonny’s transfer was one for the books, and he was definitely the most expensive player from outside of Europe. Patrick gets it, because who finds a football player in Canada, of all places? Granted, Patrick came a long way himself as well, but he’d basically spent his teenage years in Germany. Football players in Germany are nothing special. And so Patrick was nothing special either, despite the place where he was born, and Jonny was the odd one out. And if there’s one thing the world of football likes, it’s the players that don’t really fit but made it anyway. And man, did Jonny make it. Rumour had it Jonny was being offered dual nationality, clearing the way for him to become Captain of the English national team. Those damn Brits would do anything to win the Euros, Patrick thought bitterly.

The thought to turn around and drive away crossed his mind, but he pushed it away immediately. It had taken him long enough to get here in the first place. The rain was seeping through his clothes, the cold found the way to his heart, making him shiver. He looked over his shoulder, and saw his black Audi, parked straight along the sidewalk. It was tempting, to turn around and never think back to this night ever again. But the mental abuse he would give himself for cowering back would be worse than to face his long-lost—what? Best friend? _Boyfriend?_ He scoffed softly to himself. If the latter were the case, they wouldn’t have gone radio-silent the past two years.

Of course, he watched every game Jonny had played with Arsenal since he transferred. He even recorded them if he had an away game during the weekend. Of course, he had seen the games Jonny had played with Canada’s national team. Those games usually pissed him off because Jonny always gave his all, even though it was rarely ever enough to get them through to the next round of _everything_. He’d watched every game Jonny had ever played since he left Liverpool. He could recite the players in the Arsenal squad, one by one, and he paid attention to their transfers. _Transfers._ That was the reason why he was here.

Patrick shrugged the cold shivers and the nerves off of his shoulders, straightened his back and lifted his finger to the doorbell. He could hear a faint ringing from behind the closed, mahogany door.

There was a soft rattling of a lock, and then a beam of light was cast upon him, as the door was opened. Patrick couldn’t help the sharp breath he took at the sight of Jonny.

He’d seen the bulk Jonny had put on his body on television, felt it pressed against his back in a duel for the ball during a game—but up close and in front of his eyes, _damn._ Two chocolate brown eyes in a face illuminated by freckles looked surprised and startled at him. “ _Patrick_?” Jonny muttered, eyes getting larger.

Patrick nodded, and tucked his hands deeper in his pockets.

Jonny shook his head shortly in confusion. “What are you doing here?” he insisted. Patrick noticed the way Jonny’s English had that slightly British edge to it. It was faint, but it was still there, like the dusk of dawn lingering over the football field in the morning, only making it more beautiful.

Patrick cleared his throat. “I came to see you,” he said, thankful for the fact that his voice was steady, unlike his heart which was shuddering in his chest.

“I can see that… but why? I haven’t heard from you personally in a fucking long time, Pat,” Jonny asked, a sharp tone to his voice. It wasn’t hostile, but more of a surprised blurt-out, when someone was still trying to figure out if it’s positive or negative.  

Patrick shrugged. “Can I come in?” he asked instead. “I’m feeling the rain sliding down my back now.”

Jonny was gripping the frame of the door so tightly, either to throw it in Patrick’s face—which he deserved, considering how he had ignored all of Jonny’s messages, phone calls and emails—or to open it up wider.

Patrick let out a breath when Jonny did the latter, stepping aside to let him in. The warmth of the house fell around his body in a very pleasant way, after the teeth grinding cold he was standing in a second ago. London was even worse than Liverpool. Patrick scoffed unconsciously.

Jonny raised his eyebrows. “What’s so funny?” he asked him, not getting where Patrick could get the nerve to laugh at a moment like this. Hell—they haven’t seen each other off the pitch in _two years._ That’s seven hundred and thirty days to be exact. Twenty-four months without a single word.

The corners of Patrick’s mouth quickly lowered as he realized he shouldn’t be laughing right now. He ruffled his fingers through his wet hair, by now there was nothing left of the springiness of his curls. “I was just thinking—you hated the weather in Liverpool, but London’s worse. Kind of ironic you went here anyway,” he said, looking Jonny straight in the eye. He wasn’t afraid to let him know about the fact that he was still pissed off at him for the stunt he pulled—going to Arsenal two years ago. Granted, it wasn’t United but damn, it was a title contender and even more so now they had Jonny.

Jonny wasn’t taken aback by Patrick’s remark, but turned on his heel. “Stay there, I’ll get you some clothes before your dripping body is destroying my floor,” he said, and Patrick’s eyes followed Jonny’s body as he disappeared upstairs for a second.

After two minutes Jonny came downstairs again and he dropped a black pair of joggers in Patrick’s arms, followed by a softly washed cotton shirt. Patrick stared at the clothes in his arms for a second, wondering why they looked and felt familiar. “These are mine,” he muttered, trailing his finger along the seam of the joggers.

Jonny turned around, not facing him as he cleared his throat. “Yeah, erm—I still had those. Since you’re here now, you might as well take them back,” he said, sounding distant and there was still a hint of confusion in his voice. But explaining why he was here wasn’t on the top of Patrick’s to-do list anymore. First of all, he wanted to get out of his wet, sticky clothes as soon as possible.

Jonny pointed at a door at the end of the hallway. “Bathroom’s through there, it’s almost finished being renovated but there’s stuff hanging from the ceiling. Not that you need to worry about bumping your head into anything, anyway.”

Patrick rolled his eyes, because, _really?_

He opened the door, stepping inside. The bathroom was clean and light, one wall covered in new pearl white tiles, the others still blank and unfinished. The small carpet near the tub seemed untouched and soft. There were lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling, dangling a little when he closed the door behind him.

Patrick popped the button of his jeans open, pushing the wet fabric down his legs and stepped out of it. Thankfully, his underwear was still dry, and he quickly slid on the joggers—his joggers.

A flashback moved in front of his eyes as he peeled off his soaked shirt over his head. Jonny walking down the stairs in his own house, wearing Patrick’s jersey and these joggers. The way Jonny had challengingly smirked at him, way too cocky for someone who was wearing pants that finished far above his ankles. He remembers Jonny inviting him to take back what was his, including Jonny himself.

Patrick shook his head, after he’d pulled the shirt over his head. He combed his fingers through his hair, wiping the curls out of his eyes. He gathered his wet clothes in his arms, and stepped out of the bathroom.

Jonny was no longer in the hallway but there was another door opened which lead to the living room. Patrick had to blink a few times while he let his gaze slide through the room. It was nearly identical to his house in Liverpool. Not the shapes and the compositions of course, but the objects and the furniture were still the same. The dark leather couch was a little worn now, making it even more inviting. Patrick remembers the countless times they fell asleep on that couch together, too tired to move upstairs. The rows and rows of movies, stacked into bookcases were standing along the wall. A nice, warm halo of the fireplace felt soft against Patrick’s cold skin.

“You just going to stand there, or are you actually going to give me your clothes so I can wash them?” he suddenly heard behind him.

He turned around, and saw Jonny standing in his kitchen, looking put-together and not-at-all fazed by his presence. It stung a little, seeing his carelessness, even after all these years. Captain Serious was still a thing, apparently.

Patrick cleared his throat and walked over. Without a word Jonny took the clothes from him, and disappeared through another door, which Patrick believed would be the laundry room.

All alone in Jonny’s living room slash open kitchen, he let his gaze roam freely again. _The Guardian_ laid open on the counter, next to a whirring coffee machine. There was a vague scent of pasta in the air, and it reminded him of Jonny’s spaghetti with pesto which he used to make for them whenever he scored a goal. Patrick would chirp him for it, saying that Jonny only scored goals in order to be able to cheat on his diet. Jonny never really denied it, he usually just grinned and filled up Patrick’s plate again. Jonny’s goals meant pasta for Patrick as well, because a goal for Jonny was just as important to him as scoring his own goals.

Patrick took a few steps, looking at the fridge. A few pictures were plastered against it with magnets. He noticed a team photo of the Arsenal squad on the beach, a picture of Jonny and his brother, and another family picture.

“I see you still have that habit of snooping around,” Jonny said.

Patrick turned his head and nodded to Jonny, who walked over to the counter, pressing few buttons on the coffee maker.

Patrick tapped his finger on the picture of Jonny and his brother. “You two still close?” he asked.

Jonny shot him a look. “Yeah, of course. Sure, he’s a Red but he got over it a long time ago,” Jonny said, grabbing two cups from the cupboard, placing them underneath the coffee maker.

“Is he back in Canada?” Patrick asked, trying to keep a conversation going. “I thought he was setting up something in England?”

Jonny nodded. “He is, but he comes by every now and then. The business on this side of the ocean is going well, so he’s thinking about relocating,” Jonny said calmly, grabbing the cups. He made a motion with his head, indicating Patrick to follow him to the living room.

He sat down onto one end of the couch, Patrick on the other. Their fingers brushed lightly as Jonny handed him his steaming cup.

Inhaling the scent of nutmeg and cocoa powder, Patrick carefully took a sip. “I can’t believe you remember,” he breathed, after swallowing.

Jonny looked at him unfazed. “Remember what? Between you and me, you’re gonna have to be more specific," he said, staring straight at Patrick.

Patrick shot his eyes down, fixing on the cup of coffee. “I meant that you—uhm, that you… remember how I like my coffee best,” he muttered.

Shrugging, Jonny mumbled, “Good memory. Hard to forget.” Patrick just nodded, and heard Jonny sigh next to him. “I know you’re not here to check if I would still remember your taste in coffee. What’s so damn important that you have to be here past midnight?” Jonny suddenly asked.

Patrick shrugged, taking another sip from his drink. It caused Jonny to sigh again. “First you ignore me for two straight years, and now you’re suddenly here? Spill it, or your back in your car in a second,” Jonny said, but the words missed their fire and only sounded sad now. It may have been a long time since he last spoke to Jonny, that sad tone in his voice still made Patrick feel uncomfortable, like someone was clenching a fist around his heart and squeezing it tightly.

Patrick looked up from his cup, in the confused eyes of Jonny. “I read it,” he muttered, turning his body a little to face Jonny, who raised his eyebrows.

“You read what?” he asked.

Patrick wanted to turn away, shoot his eyes downwards again, but he kept them locked with Jonny. “Seabs,” Patrick mumbled. “I read it on twitter, how he signed with Aston Villa. It’s the last day of the transfer window, so I guess it must have been quite a shock for you that he’s leaving.”

Jonny’s face didn’t give away any emotion. “Well, yeah, sort of. He already told me yesterday on the phone, after his conversation with the coach,” he said, scratching the bridge of his nose.  

He nodded in encouragement. “So…? How do you feel about it, then?” he asked.

Jonny scoffed and looked incredulous at him. “Now you’re asking about my feelings?” he countered. “Took you a little while.”

Patrick sighed. “I’m trying here, Jonny.”

Sighing, Jonny leared his throat. “Well… I’ll miss him, of course. He got me through some lows these past years, and he made sure I got the best out of myself. But I also know that he wouldn’t make the starting line-up with the four-four-two system. He’s better off there, and he’s got a few buddies there as well,” Jonny said simply, as he took a sip of his coffee.

Patrick remained silent for a while, slightly surprised at how mature Jonny was with all this. He remembered how he himself had acted when Jonny had told him he would go to Arsenal. He’d thrown his dinner plate, with Jonny’s post-goal scoring pasta against the wall. Along with the shards, it was his heart that was broken. After the confusion and the sadness had passed, anger had taken its place. And after that, after the failed attempts to sort it out together, after the screaming, after the _guess you’ll just have to fucking go then, just go!_ it had just… ended. Not with a fizzle, but with a bang, because that’s him and Jonny together. Explosive, even when they’re not on the same side.

And when he faced Jonny during _that_ match, he’d elbowed him out of frustration and brokenness. But after that, he never talked to him again, too ashamed of himself and too hurt to ever dare to face Jonny off the pitch again.

“Patrick… You’re not just here to ask me how I’m doing with Seabs’ departure, right?” Jonny asked softly, his voice gentler now as it broke through Patrick’s thoughts.

Patrick shook his head lightly. “I’m not,” he mumbled. He turned back towards Jonny again. “I was wondering… Were you as mad at Seabs as I was with you when you decided to leave?” he asked.

Jonny raised his eyebrows, the corner of his lips turning upwards in a soft scoff. “Are you kidding me, Pat? Of course not,” he stated, placing his cup onto the salon table. “You were… You were absolutely _gone_ , that’s how mad you were. Seabs leaving sucks, but that’s all there is to it.”

Patrick traced the rim of his cup with his index finger before also putting his cup down on the table. “I should’ve known,” he said, a mocking tone creeping into his voice. “You’re not someone to get irrationally angry. You just wish someone the best and never have bad feelings towards them.”

Jonny looked at him confused. “What are you saying? That I should’ve gotten angry at Seabs? It’s his life, Pat.”

He shrugged. “Well, we were together, and your departure made me angry. I just thought—now that Seabs is gone, maybe you’re in the same place as I was three years ago,” he mumbled.

Jonny stares at him. “Patrick. Are you implying that Seabs and I were together, _like that?_ ” he asked, his voice sounding disbelieving. “Together like we were?”

Patrick nodded. “Of course you were. I saw all the videos and all the games. There was no doubt about it,” he said.

Jonny laid his hand on Patrick’s lower arm, his fingers soft against Patrick’s still cold skin. “Seabs and I were never together, Pat. He’s just a friend. After you, no one really seemed like—” Jonny muttered, breaking off his sentence.

Turning his head sideways, Patrick met Jonny’s eyes. “You weren’t?” he blurted. That was impossible, he saw the way they looked at each other. They were always close, celebrating and laughing. It had made Patrick jealous because it made him remember all the fights he used to have with Jonny about him being too distant towards him.

“Seabs and I—we were never together,” Jonny stated again. “We’re just friends, that’s all.”

Patrick shook his head slowly in confusion. “Never?” he asked incredulously.

“No one since you,” Jonny’s lips curved into a hint of a smile. .

Patrick suddenly regretted every single word he’d shouted at Jonny all those years ago, and a lack of oxygen was suddenly making him feel light-headed, like his lungs had collapsed at Jonny’s words.

“Me neither,” he croaked, his voice shaking a little.

Jonny cocked his head sideways in silent disbelief. “But, you were the one who broke up with me?”

Patrick shook his head, looking intently at Jonny. “No one serious. Not one person since you. I spent too much time being pissed off at you instead of getting over you. Jesus, Jonny, you’re still all I fucking think about,” he muttered. “Why else do you think I’d be here tonight instead of just calling you or sending you a text?”

Jonny let out a breath, and Patrick could feel it warm against his skin, making it tingle. He cleared his throat and continued. “I’ve been a dick, these last two years. I know. But Jonny— _you_ fucking left and I couldn’t deal. You were basically living in my house, and then the next day the deal happened and you were gone. Just like that. And you didn’t even go to Spain or Germany, no, you stayed right here in England but you managed to be just out of my reach,” he mumbled. “It really fucking hurt, and you know how it made me feel.”

Jonny nods, sighing deeply. “I know. I know how it looked, I know how I made you feel.”

“Then why did you do it in the first place? Was it me? Did you want to break up but you didn’t know how to break it to me? Is that why you got me so angry, so I’d be the one to do it?”

“No, no,” Jonny shook his head. “It was just, Liverpool, man. I felt _stuck_ , even though I was with you. And it was close those last few months, Pat, people would’ve found out about us. We got cocky, thinking it would be our little secret forever. But I was dreading the day the Sun would finally manage to picture us, and I thought it’d be safer if I went away. I never wanted to break up with you, though.”

Patrick was watching the intent way Jonny was rubbing his thumb across his knuckles, as if he was trying to press the words into Patrick’s skin, make him believe them.

“You should have told me that when you were transferring, Jonny,” Patrick sighs, shaking his head. “We’ve been so fucking stupid, I’ve been hung up over you ever since you left. On you and your stupid muscles.”

Jonny’s eyes lit up a little, and it made Patrick’s tongue more loose. “It was wrong of me, to stay angry at you for leaving for so long. Maybe I sort of knew it was for the better, but it wasn’t only the fact that you left the club—but it felt…” his voice broke off.

Jonny scooted a little closer towards him, his hand still on Patrick’s lower arm. “It felt…?” he asked softly.

Patrick breathed in sharply. “It felt like you were leaving me. Behind. That there was no place for a rude, jealous, irresponsible Patrick Kane in your life anymore, while you were making your way up to the top of the world.”

Jonny shook his head, placing his other hand on Patrick’s knee. “That’s not true, Pat,” he muttered.

Swallowing hard, Patrick nods. “I know, but that’s what I told myself, and that’s what convinced me that I should rather be angry at you, than to fight for what we have... I mean _had_ ,” he croaked.

Jonny smiled softly at his mistake, and entwined their fingers softly. “We can have, again?” he asked, a hopeful lilt to his words. “If you want to?”

“Just like that?” Patrick asked, pressing his lips together. His mind told him not to hope but his heart was long gone already. “After all this shit? We didn’t even speak for two years, Jonny.”

“I still know you, Pat,” Jonny smiled. “I remembered how you liked your coffee, right?”

Patrick cracked a small grin. “You did. The only thing that changed is that I got significantly more awesome than you over the past two years.”

Jonny scooted closer, both of them sitting sideways on the couch. Their knees touched and Jonny slid his hands up around Patrick’s waist. Patrick missed the feeling so much, he’d be perfectly fine just sitting like that all night. But Jonny smiled and leaned in closer, asking, “So does that also mean you’re still a horrible kisser, then?”

“Fuck you, you’ve always loved my mou—” Patrick couldn’t get another word out because Jonny had closed the distance between them.

Jonny’s lips were soft and warm, and Patrick vaguely recognized the lingering taste of coffee on Jonny’s tongue. He leaned back into the couch, allowing Jonny to crowd in closer and press up against him.

Warmth filled him throughout his entire body as Jonny licked deeper into his mouth, the kiss turning hotter. With his eyes closed, Patrick could almost pretend they were three years back in time, with him wearing his post-match clothes and with Jonny still riding high on adrenaline. Because Jonny kissed like he hadn’t kissed anyone in the years they spent apart, and maybe he had or maybe he hadn’t, but Patrick knew one thing. In his life, only Jonny had ever kissed him like this, and this time he wouldn’t allow Jonny to stop making him feel like the last two years hadn’t happened at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and feedback is lovingly drooled upon!♥


End file.
